


The Ghost Leech

by tritonvert



Series: The Ghost Leech [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Ghosts, original character - half a dozen leeches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 13,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tritonvert/pseuds/tritonvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly is a ghost, but that's okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

L’Aigle de Meaux felt rather keenly his lack of lodgings.  It was hard not to.  Oh, he wasn’t yet sleeping outdoors, except for that one time and that other one time and that other other one time; but those had all been summer evenings and entirely reasonable cases where the friend whose couch he occupied had had someone else over and wanted a bit of privacy.

But now it was getting on well into late September and M. Spare Couch and Mlle. Someone-Else were talking more and more about how nice it would be if she could move in and share a little domesticity.  A discussion of curtains and the price of eggs had grown awkwardly intimate by the time Lesgle felt the need to remind his companions of his existence with a cough.

"You could take over my room," Mlle. Someone-Else had said, her voice rising into a question at the end.  "It doesn’t cost very much."

"Well, as I don’t _have_ very much, we may be well-suited,” Lesgle had said as cheerfully as he could manage.  That night his friend had taken him out to dinner to celebrate the agreement and had contrived through tolerably obvious cheating to lose three months’ rent to Lesgle at cards.  (The cheating was only tolerably obvious the next morning, when Lesgle woke in his new and unfamiliar bed and tried to piece together the night’s occurrences through nausea and headache.  Did this room have a basin?  Yes, thank God, he found it in time to be sick.)

As he wiped his face on his sleeve and longed for a pitcher of clean washing-water, a voice spoke very distinctly into Lesgle’s ear.

"A leech.  What you need is a leech.  It’s just the thing after a night of over-indulgence."

There was no one in the room.  Lesgle made quite sure of that: there wasn’t enough furniture for anyone to hide behind, under, or within.  And while there were several cracks in the wall, none of them was close enough to leave a chill down the back of his neck when someone spoke through it.

"I’m serious.  I’ve read Broussais.  Most diseases are caused by hyper-stimulation.  Inflammation of the stomach.  You arrived last night in a state of hyper-stimulation; now you are unwell; ergo, a leech."

"Ghosts are an irrational superstition," ventured Lesgle.  The chill on the back of his neck grew frostier.  Someone sniffled. 

"…Men have died for want of leeches," the voice continued, in an offended tone.  " _Young_ men.  Cut down in their prime.  Young medical students with all the world before them.”

Frankly, if this was Lesgle’s prime, he wasn’t so very attached to it.  “ _It’s a hangover_.  I’ve had one before.  I got along without…medical slugs.”

"Leeches are annelids.  Slugs are gastropods."

"I’m going to be sick again."

He was, and when he was done, no one said anything.  Lesgle went back to the bed.  It had a single sheet on it, and a single blanket.  Mlle. Someone-Else had, reasonably, taken her belongings with her.  Lesgle pulled the blanket over his face.  Perhaps the hallucination had passed.

"I still think you should be more concerned," said the voice, this time in his other ear.  "Men have died for want of leeches.  _Young_ men.  Cut down in their prime.  —Doesn’t it frighten you even a little?”

"Go rattle a chain," said Lesgle.


	2. Chapter 2

"He said that he feels a strong spiritual connection to me.  I told him he couldn’t; we’d just met.  And then he told me not to pretend to be an expert on matters of the spirit."

"Hm."

"Well, I told him if we had a spiritual connection he would recognize when I’m trying to get a bit of sleep."

"A fair point."

"So he said—"  At this point, Bahorel held up a hand to stop the flow of his friend’s speech.  He felt he had an understanding of the situation.

"The problem, Lesgle, is that you have entered into a marriage without knowing it.  A marriage of some few years’ duration already. —Silence.  You are about to make an objection—"

"—two objections—"

"Two objections.  First, you will object that two men cannot marry.  I overrule this: I overrule this and I ask myself when my good friend Lesgle became so mired in conventionality.  I shake my head.  Second, you object that you cannot have been married to this gentleman for some years as you only began lodging with him last week.  This objection has some slight merit."

"Bahorel, why are you talking like a lawyer?  We had an agreement.  I thought this was the basis of our entire friendship.  We met while absent from class; we swore a solemn oath—note that I do not call it a contract—an oath that law-business would never taint a good vintage."

"…Damnation, you’re right.  Though you’re a bit too generous to this bottle.  Practically vinegar."  Bahorel stretched himself extensively and waved over the waitress to order more wine for the table, better wine, and two more carp.  Lesgle was an odd fellow but he had many good qualities: among them, a willingness to accept generosity without protest.  "Well.  What do you want to do?  Should I come over and tell this medical student that you’re taken?  Believe me, I can look terrifyingly possessive."  He had the satisfaction of seeing Lesgle’s ears turn pink.

-

Bahorel walked his friend as far as the door of his new address.  He had the feeling he had been to at least one party somewhere on that street.  Last year? The year before?  The year before that?  He offered again to meet and/or menace this odd roommate but Lesgle waved him away and slunk into his new dwelling.  Slunk!  There was something odd here, Bahorel thought.  First he had seen Lesgle blushing; then he had seen him furtive.  Neither was a natural state of affairs.

He dismissed it from his mind as he sauntered home.  The main thing was that Lesgle had a roof over his head on this chilly wet night—and so did Bahorel, a roof over his head and a fine blazing fire to build in the grate.  He got it poked and puffed up to a highly satisfactory degree and only then gave into the luxury of easing out of his high boots.  Ah.  He took up a book from a little table by his armchair, propped his cloven hooves in front of the toasty flames, and scratched the thick coarse hair around his hock: a state of great luxury.  Outside, the rain fell; inside all was warmth.


	3. Chapter 3

Lesgle placed an empty wine-bottle on the counter.  He had cleaned it several times over, but it was indisputably a wine-bottle, and quite inappropriate.  He and the pharmacist looked at it sorrowfully.  Even the other customer in the shop glanced over from his contemplation of ointments and then glanced away.

"How much are your leeches?"  The pharmacist named his price and Lesgle thought—even more sorrowfully—of his shrinking purse.  He had had three months’ rent two weeks ago.  Half was already gone.  "Are they really so expensive?"

"These are very good leeches.  _Medicinal_ leeches.”

"At that price I could just go wading in a pond—"  It was a terrible thing to say.  Lesgle felt his fellow-customer’s eyes on his back, as well as the forcible disapproval of the pharmacist. 

"Monsieur may do as he likes, naturally."  The man handed Lesgle his wine-bottle.  Lesgle tried to nudge it back onto the counter.  "I only meant that—that—"

"Monsieur meant perhaps that he would travel to Camargue and seek out a respectable leech-farm from amongst the muddy frauds who would sell him horse-leeches painted yellow, hmm?  Horse-leeches, not medicinal leeches.  The horse-leech is a terrible creature, Monsieur.  A cannibal.  This, this is the Camargue leech.  Docile, gentle.  Sociable."

"They look like a mix of Camargue and Landes leeches to me."  And that would be Lesgle’s fellow-customer.  He suppressed a glare at the officious interloper, who had brought out a pair of spectacles to examine the leech-jar.  "This little gentleman surely came from Landes.  See how green he is?  With the two black stripes, that’s entirely characteristic.  And that one’s Hungarian, with that brick-red speckling.  How much did you say they were, again?  Mm, it _is_ a bit steep, especially for a mix, I have to wonder how long those Hungarian leeches were on the road…suppose one were to purchase them by the dozen, what would you take off?”

"I don’t want a dozen—"  But haggling had begun, and Lesgle caught on quickly enough.  Soon he and the other man were the owners of two dozen leeches, diverse leeches from various corners of Europe, guaranteed to be hungry and healthy and in a state of satisfactory molt.  The pharmacist had _not_ liked to put them in Lesgle’s shabby old wine-bottle.  The pharmacist had done it anyway, in receipt of a significant portion of Lesgle’s rent money, combined with the resources of his unexpected leeching ally. 

Outside, Lesgle tucked the bottle under his arm.  “They’re for a friend.  You probably guessed that.  I am not, myself, in the leech field; I toil not with leeches and neither do I…er, spin them..  —I’m Lègle, lately from Meaux, and very pleased to meet you, sir.  My friend didn’t think to tell me how much a half-dozen leeches would run to.  He’s—ah—an unworldly sort.”

If the comment struck his new companion as odd, it didn’t show in his face: in fact, he seemed not to have heard.  His brow was furrowed, in contrast to a slow sleepy smile that began to spread.  “Lègle, lately from Meaux.  L’Aigle de Meaux.  Tell me, friend, do they ever call you Bossuet?”

An answering grin nearly split Lesgle’s face.  “Friend,” he said, “They do not.  And I have forever been hoping that they would.”

——

And so Lesgle returned to his apartment and his ghost not with leeches but with a promise of leeches.  The medical student had sworn most soberly to bring Lesgle’s portion over that evening, in a more suitable container than the wine-bottle.  Lesgle hadn’t had the heart to explain to him that these leeches were destined for the afterlife.  (The heart or the nerve; they really didn’t know one another well enough for a story that started with “my friend’s mistress’ room,” went on with “is haunted by the ghost of her former downstairs neighbor,” and finished “who is convinced that he requires ghostly leeching.”  For one thing, Lesgle himself was not wholly convinced of the existence of ghosts.  His current situation might be some sort of singular event, a case of his own peculiar luck; there might not _be_ any other ghosts.  For another thing, starting the story would just provoke more questions.  Questions like “Why are you living in your friend’s mistress’ room,” and “why is the ghost haunting your friend’s mistress’ room instead of his own,” and “can leeches even become ghosts?”  Lesgle had spent more time today pondering the existence of the leechly soul than he had thought possible.)

The promise of leeches was barely enough to keep up Joly’s spirits.  ( _Spirits_ , ha.  Lesgle had become almost painfully sensitive to the word in the last two weeks.)  The ghost seemed to be haunting Lesgle’s shaving-mirror: it rattled.  He was a fretful ghost.  He was a fretful ghost; he was a ghost that apologetically left cold drafts in his corner of the bed; he was a ghost that started unexpected conversations at odd hours; he was a ghost of a uniquely sweet disposition.  An account of the leech-haggling got him laughing again.   As Lesgle perfected his impression of the pharmacist’s long face, it struck him with a pang that he wished he could _see_ his ghost.

"The best of it is," Joly was saying, in a breathless chuckle, "the _best_ of it is that I don’t think it matters in the slightest, the Camargue leech and the Landes leech are—” 

Footsteps and a knock interrupted him.  Lesgle signaled silence, and went to let in the guest.  When he opened the door three things happened in rapid succession: a disembodied voice squeaked “Combeferre!”, a small whirlwind of loose papers and plaster dust spun up from a corner of the room and launched at the new arrival, and the new arrival dropped very neatly into a heap on the floor.  His earthenware jar tumbled out of his hands and rolled into the fire.

As he loosened Combeferre’s cravat and did other things that seemed correct in a case of fainting, Lesgle wondered if he had been spared the unpleasantness of ushering half a dozen leeches to their next life.


	4. Chapter 4

"So then the lady who moved into his room downstairs started hanging crucifixes everywhere and praying aggressively."

"I felt _very unwelcome_.”

"So he haunted the stairwell for a few months—"

"—I slept a lot, really—"

"—until I moved in, and I gather he thought I looked like a good person to haunt, you know, a fellow student."

"And you possess a high degree of animal magnetism."

"Er.  And I possess a high degree of animal magnetism."

Combeferre turned his spectacles over and over in his hands.  He could not see the source of one of the voices that was talking to him.  Lesgle—Bossuet, they had joked happily about the name—assured him that that was normal, that he couldn’t see Joly either except for occasional glimmers in a mirror.  But Combeferre found it difficult to take this as calmly as he did.  (He had ruled out tricks like throwing voices or accomplices in the next room.  That would not explain the way the bed periodically shifted by itself, the sheet sometimes bunching and rippling.  It would not explain the strange fluctuations in temperature.)

Joly.  Combeferre had not considered him an intimate acquaintance, but an acquaintance he had most certainly been. He recalled the young man’s death this spring most vividly.  Joly had returned to classes at the start of the term complaining of poor health. It was only when he had been absent from lectures for two weeks that Combeferre had asked one of Joly’s closer friends about him: why yes, he was quite ill.  Chomel was treating him, but with more opium than hope.  It was a case of typhoid fever that had progressed rapidly to the adynamic form.  Combeferre had attended the funeral and had kept little more than the recollection of a charming young man, incapable of malice, fashionable for a medical student, with a sometimes giddy enthusiasm for theory.

And now here was Combeferre sitting in a half-broken chair listening to him.  The voice was the same.  The laugh was the same.  And in all this madness the law-student Bossuet seemed merely apologetic, rather than bewildered.  When he had begun to explain about the ghost wanting leeches, he had sounded no more off-balance than someone explaining about—oh, about the awkwardness of a fireplace that smoked or a great-grandmother who needed things shouted very loudly twice over.

Perched on the edge of the bed, Bossuet reached absently behind him and twined his fingers with what must be an unseen hand.  Combeferre began to feel a dull and sickly panic.  It was Orpheus and Eurydice, but who was leading whom?  Where were they going?

"But Combeferre," said Joly’s voice, "just think of all the experiments.  I’ve been doing what I could—Bossuet is a saint for putting up with me—but I don’t have any materials."

Combeferre pushed his spectacles firmly back into place.  He took a careful breath.  “Yes.  Of course.  Now, will you explain to me about the leeches?”

—

The medical students’ conversation was running along the lines of the mental aspect of ghostly medicine.  This was an altogether new field—the ghostly leeches were already improving the patient’s sense of well-being—certainly this was an effect of the mind, but what else could he _be_ but mind?  And what were living patients if not also minds, minds linked with bodies.  By examining a ghost, one could perhaps isolate the treatment of the one from the treatment of the other…  Combeferre was evidently not drunk in any literal sense—for one thing, Bossuet and Joly had nothing in that line to offer at the moment—but in his shirtsleeves and talking magnetism and vibration and psychofluidism to the thin air he seemed not altogether sober.  His hair had begun to stick up and he kept taking off his spectacles and putting them on again to stare at the space Joly’s voice occupied. 

A sensation not entirely unlike jealousy began to touch Bossuet.  This was unusual. Into a quiet lull he suggested another experiment: brandy.  Joly had not yet discovered how to drink but he had some ideas.  “Let’s try setting it on fire,” had been his words.  “It worked with the leeches.”  Combeferre nodded dreamily and agreed.  “Ghost leeches, ghost brandy.  God in Heaven, why not.” 

Bossuet trundled out into the night with a sense of relief.  He needed the fresh air and the exercise.  Jealousy?  Pettiness?  Oh, tut tut.  With the bottle under his arm and an autumn chill piercing his coat he felt his head clearing as he neared his building’s door.  And then—

"Lesgle!  _Lesgle_!  _L’AIGLE DE MEAUX_ , just the man I was looking for!”

It was Bahorel.


	5. Chapter 5

"Lesgle!  _Lesgle_!  _L’AIGLE DE MEAUX_ , just the man I was looking for!”

It was Bahorel. 

He would not be shaken off. 

Bossuet was an inch or two taller than him…a gangly and loose-limbed inch or two.  When Bahorel planted a hand on his elbow he wasn’t going anywhere.  “Lesgle.  I am an ass.”

"I would never say that to you.  But—"

"I am an _unobservant_ ass, and a poor friend.  Last week you were telling me about your new living situation.”

"Oh, that.  Really, I’m—in fact I rather need to be going in—" 

"You seemed oppressed in your spirits."  Lesgle narrowed his eyes. "You had a haunted air."  Lesgle tried to unhook his elbow from Bahorel’s arm; he glanced over his shoulder at his door.  "…As if you had seen a…?  Oh, come on.  Don’t make me spell it out, this is foolish enough already if I’m wrong."

Bahorel was giving him a searching look; he appeared to be entirely sober; his voice was almost strained.  There was an expression on his face that Lesgle couldn’t work out.  It was uncharacteristic.  It was…concern?  “Thank you, Bahorel.  But—” 

"Dammit man, you don’t ask why I’m making juvenile puns on the subject of ghosts, _and_ you don’t deny anything.  Are you in trouble?  I have some experience in this area.” 

Oh.  _Oh._   Bahorel had come to rescue him from the vile phantasm that had claimed his soul.  Bahorel _had experience in this area_ (which was certainly a revelation) and had come…to rescue him.

Bossuet rubbed his eyes and began to laugh.

—

Of course it took more than laughter to deter Bahorel.  It took more than Lesgle’s assurances that he wasn’t being hounded to desperation, had not been asked to avenge an untimely death, was not being drained of life force nor driven mad with unnatural dreams—that the most terrifying aspect of the haunting thus far was cold feet in the middle of the night from someone who took up an absurd amount of space in a small bed considering that he didn’t even need to manifest corporeally, and periodic reminders of mortality.    Bahorel insisted on coming up to see the situation for himself.  And then followed a further series of revelations.  First Lesgle introduced him to Combeferre, and the two men eyed one another thoughtfully and murmured that they were already acquainted.  Then Bahorel proceeded to introduce himself to Lesgle’s bed. 

An explosion of _You can see him?—He can see me?—He can see you?_ followed, to which Bahorel replied “Can’t you?  That’s interesting.”  He had begun to look complacent.  Bossuet was piqued, rather as he had begun to feel piqued by Combeferre’s quick and easy falling-in with Joly.  Perhaps Bahorel had been right to worry about a haunting.  Possessiveness was a rather novel feeling for Bossuet.  But here he’d been, shut up in this tiny garret with his ghost for the better part of two weeks, like a man on a very peculiar honeymoon…

He felt a cool pressure on his leg.  From the feel of things, Joly had come to sit next to him on the floor, resting his head on his knee.  If this _was_ a phantasm that had claimed Lesgle’s soul, it hardly seemed vile.  Quite benign, in fact.

—

The brandy experiment proved a grand success.  They had no glasses, of course.  But Bossuet and Bahorel and eventually Combeferre passed the bottle amongst themselves, sitting by the grate, and periodically splashed a bit into the flames: with a little practice, Joly was able to catch its ghostly form as the alcohol burned away.  “It’s like bobbing for apples,” he said.  “Or fishing roast chestnuts out of a fire.”  At that point they had finished half the bottle.  Joly seemed to be tipsily haunting the floor, inventing new words to the Marseillaise; once he had murmured _boo_ at Combeferre’s shoes.  Not long after, Bahorel yawned and stood up. 

"That’s me for the night.  No offense, Lesgle, but I’d rather sleep in my own bed.  Time for us to go, Combeferre, experiments later.  If I’d known you wanted to look at ghosts I’d’ve introduced you to—hmm.  Hell, I might as well introduce you all anyway.  Lesgle, since you don’t mind a haunting, there’s a ghost I know.  Good company, I’ll send him around to pay a call.  He can give Joly a few tips."  ( _Is he frightening?_ asked Joly.  _Only if you’re a bottle of wine_ , said Bahorel.)

Bossuet walked them down the stairs, and once again Bahorel caught him firmly by the elbow.  He braced himself for another lecture on the dangers of too much commerce with the dead: but no, it was something else.  Bahorel caught Combeferre’s eye before speaking.  “I’d been thinking of this for some time, but—Lesgle should meet your friends at the Musain.”

"They are your friends too, I hope, though I know you have many around the city."

"Most assuredly they are."

"What’s this new mystery?"  Combeferre had sobered, and so had Bahorel.  Bossuet divided the question between them.

"Some good people, Lesgle.  Law-students, mostly—after _our_ understanding of the word.”

"Ah, so it’s political.  And not supernatural."

"Not at all," said Combeferre.

"Not very," said Bahorel at the same time.  They looked at one another.  Bahorel shrugged.  "Come with me on Tuesday."

—-

"…Joly?"

Joly rustled drowsily.

"Joly, what did you do with the leech ghosts?"

"I applied them to my—"

"No, when you were done.  Where are they?"

"Oh.  I put them back in the jar, of course."  Bossuet sighed with relief and wriggled back into a sleeping position.  A moment later he opened his eyes again. 

"But Joly, they’re ghosts, they don’t stay in physical jars."  Joly was silent.  "Just tell me they aren’t in this bed right now.  Tell me they are not…immaterially attached to my ankles."

"Um."  He hiccupped.  "The…the leeches are not in this bed right now and they are not immaterially attached to your ankles.  All right?"

Lesgle found himself shifting uneasily all night anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

"There it is, Joly.  Come and witness it."  Bossuet placed something on the top of the dresser, and Joly wafted over.  He was pleased to see that his friend sidled out of the way: it meant that his efforts at visibility were paying off.  Bossuet reported that he "could often see him in a mirror" and "sometimes caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye."  In life Joly had always felt himself to be a _noticeable_ person—tiresomely so, sometimes, when people asked questions like _where was he from_ and _why was he in Paris_ and _was his mother a mulatto or a quadroon and what was he?_   Literal invisibility was—different, anyway.

He peered at the small coin on the dresser, succeeded in nudging it a bit.  “That, my dear Joly, is _my last sou_.”  Bossuet laughed.  “We shall have to make it stretch.”

Joly was not altogether sure how to take this.  “But…you do have some sort of income?  An allowance…?”

"Oh, yes, there’s a bit left from my grand patrimony.  It pays for my school fees.  And the remainder I can extend as far as twenty bad dinners or ten good.  I have already eaten them this year."  He picked up the coin again, flipped it in the air. 

Joly rubbed his nose.  He had not expected this.  For a moment he thought wildly of Avignon, explaining to his parents that…no.  No.  He’d been through that already, reasoned against it.  “Well.  What shall we do, Lesgle?”

"Oh, the first thing is to sell off my valuables.  Which I did months ago.  Next thing is to ask a friend of mine in the publishing business if he needs any stories written."

"What kind do you usually…?"

"Dirty ones, grisly ones, sentimental ones, whatever he might be looking for."  This was somewhat familiar ground for Joly; many of his friends had called themselves scribblers.  He nodded before remembering that the gesture was likely useless, and put a hand on Bossuet’s shoulder instead.  "If there’s nothing to be had in that area—if the bookstalls are up to their necks in bloody murders and seduced heroines—I’ll have to lurk around the law courts and see if anyone has a job for a student.  But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.  Bahorel wouldn’t speak to me for a week.  It’s a matter of quarantine, you know."

Bossuet patted the general vicinity of Joly’s arm.  “Il nous faut de l’audace, that’s all.  I’d better be off, catch my friend as he’s striking out for a little midday refreshment.  Later!”

Which left Joly in sole possession of the room.  Joly and half a dozen leeches.  Bossuet had suspected correctly that they would not stay in a jar.  In fact, they preferred the wash-basin.  Joly had not chosen to mention this; he just periodically scooped them out when Bossuet’s attention was elsewhere and herded them back to their proper home.

They appeared to enjoy their little voyages.  In fact, Joly was beginning to think the leeches liked him.  They had a way of hovering that seemed affectionate. 

—

Jean Prouvaire was sitting on Bahorel’s floor in an attitude he claimed to be that of the Buddha.  His flexibility impressed Combeferre.  It must reflect some uncommon quality of his connective tissues.

"Prouvaire," he said suddenly, "Have you ever seen a ghost?"  Not _do you believe in ghosts_ , because he already knew that.  Jean Prouvaire believed in a variety of shades; Jean Prouvaire claimed he had been bitten once by a vampire. But had Prouvaire ever seen a ghost?

Prouvaire flopped onto his back, legs still crossed.  “Why do you ask?”

"Humor me with an answer first?"

"Hmm.  Yes, a few.  When I was a child once there were spirits among my family’s almond trees.  I had fallen asleep in the late afternoon and when I woke up lights were moving all around me and I heard a voice.  —And of course there’s the ghost in the Corinthe."

"Why ‘of course?’ I never knew there was a—a ghost in the Corinthe."

"Père Houcheloup doesn’t like people to mention it.  And anyway—I don’t know—"  Prouvaire unknotted himself and rolled onto his stomach.  "Most people don’t see them.  So, why do you ask?"

Combeferre wished Bahorel would come back from his errand, would interrupt the scene with some crashing-open of the door and a loud oath about the weather.  He didn’t.  “You know I don’t deny the existence of ghosts—”  Prouvaire laughed softly.  “—but in a matter of studying the nature of what one cannot see…”

"You can’t dissect a ghost and draw its connective tissues."  Combeferre winced.  "You can’t split it open to reason upon it, like those poor inoffensive pebbles.  You can’t keep it in a jar of alcohol while its colors fade."

"Oh, come.  You don’t take on that superior tone when you’re gazing nose-to-nose at my specimen jars, Prouvaire—"

They had very nearly become cross with one another when Bahorel finally did come back.  The door crashed open, and he cursed the wet weather as he shook rain off his coat.  He stirred up the fire and grumbled that Jehan hadn’t.  He asked why everyone looked so sour and laughed when Prouvaire said they were arguing about ghosts.  It was a welcome intervention.

—

Joly was watching his leeches escape again from their jar when the thought struck him.  Well—thoughts were always striking him, but this one was more useful than most. 

Finding pen and ink and paper, _assembling_ pen and ink and paper in one place, applying the ones to the other, it was a consuming challenge for a young ghost unused to the activity.  But he persevered.  By the time Lesgle returned, muddy, Joly was a _proud_ young ghost. 

"Look," he said, "I’ve made a start on a manuscript to sell!"

_La nuit était noire et orageuse; il pleuvait à torrents…_


	7. Chapter 7

Bahorel had three enterprises in hand for Tuesday night.  He felt fairly confident of his success in all three—but it still promised to be a busy enough evening, and delicate enough, that he felt a bristling energy as he tied up his cravat and brushed his hair firmly over his horns. 

He had chased Combeferre and Jehan out of his room an hour earlier.  This ghost business had stirred up turbulence in the usually-tranquil waters of Combeferre’s soul…Bahorel considered his metaphor and swatted it away as he shrugged on his coat.  Combeferre was upset.  It was insufficient simply not to deny the supernatural; now he had to affirm it, confront it, come at it in full force.  Well, Jehan wasn’t a bad person to talk to in such a case.

First stop: the Corinthe, to haul Grantaire off his noncorporeal ass and get him to go out into the world and meet a new arrival to the post-death Paris social scene.  Lured with brandy and the promise of good company— _a jolly fellow_ , said Bahorel, and laughed at his own joke—Grantaire came along willingly enough.  “You’ll like his living friend, too.  But I’m borrowing him for the evening, taking him over to the Musain.”  One of these days Bahorel would convince Grantaire to visit the Musain as well.  He believed in the forceful application of opposites: noise and confusion to the bourgeois neighborhood, shame to the pontiff, ease to the miserable, undisguised wholehearted idealistic affection to Grantaire.

And, for that matter, a free hot meal and lively company for Lesgle, who had as far as Bahorel could tell been keeping himself shut in a tiny garret for two weeks with his new ghost friend.  Who seemed like a fine ghost, granted, but living heartbeats needed company of their own kind too. 

At Lesgle’s room he didn’t linger for long introductions.  The ghosts could be left to talk amongst themselves.  He waited just long enough for Lesgle to put on his hat and scoop up a single coin from the top of the dresser, and then they were off.

—

No surprise that Lesgle and Courfeyrac recognized one another, though Lesgle had been avoiding law lectures a year longer.   Combeferre was standing with Courfeyrac by the fire, and so Lesgle was very quickly introduced all around as Bossuet.  But Bahorel didn’t let go of him just yet.  He caught Enjolras’ eye and gave him the smallest of nods.  Vouching for a new arrival.  Enjolras and Lesgle would likely make their way towards one another during the course of the evening—and _now_ Bahorel could let his friend loose into the general company.

That done, he collapsed himself into a chair beside Feuilly, who was hunched over a pile of papers, making notes.  He nodded to Bahorel with a harried smile.  “Another student?”

"After my own fashion.  I would say— _un camarade_.”  While literally true, it conveyed a particular message within the confines of the Musain.  A student’s politics were misty things.  Unformed.  Potential.  But a _camarade,_ the word carrying with it the sound of private schoolroom jokes and after-work gossip, was well on his way to friendship.  Feuilly took this in, nodded, set down his pen and cracked his knuckles.  Bahorel leaned over to see what he was working on.  “Notes for yourself?”

"For Enjolras.  The pamphlet is from a man who claims to be Greek, with his thoughts on the situation with Russia and the Ottomans."  Feuilly shrugged.  "I doubt he’s ever been to Greece.  But it’s a good example of the Russian view.  Enjolras needed some points clarified."   Bahorel laughed—quietly, for him. 

"If you ever tire of annotating international politics for Enjolras, tell him so."

Feuilly’s smile was wry but very fond.  “I will.  But I like having my specialties here. —So, your _camarade_ , what are his specialties?”

"Bad luck and good grace."  They watched Bossuet laugh easily with Courfeyrac, a threadbare muddy coat and the very latest fashions knocking elbows.  This was another application of opposites.  And really, Bahorel thought, so was his spot at Feuilly’s table.  He always told himself he was livening Feuilly’s day by jostling him out of a quietly-working mood and into an arguing-about-everything-in-the-world mood.  And yet half the time they ended up sitting peaceably among a heap of newspapers, watching their friends. 

Clearly Bahorel needed to take better hygienic precautions against Steady Quiet Application.  He shook himself and leaned close to Feuilly again.  “So, let me tell you about this engagement I have tonight with a certain fair nymph I picked up at the Palais-Royal…” 

Feuilly snorted and covered his face in a way that satisfied Bahorel’s soul.

—

After Lesgle had circulated the room a few times and been drawn in to arbitrate a debate on the proper ingredients for punch—was arrack still acceptable, and was ambergris an odious ostentation?—Bahorel plucked him away from an argument between Jehan and Combeferre and suggested they go back and see how the ghosts were getting on.  After that he had to move on to another sort of meeting altogether, he said with a wink and a nudge.

Bossuet’s teasing questions lasted them all the way back to his room—where the ghosts were getting on very well indeed.  When they came into the room, Joly was once again sprawled on the floor and singing.  It seemed Grantaire had had brilliant suggestions for the new ghostly Marseillaise.  And—and—and he had had a marvelous idea about the leeches—where had they gone?  He had been teaching them tricks—Grantaire, have you seen the leeches—?  There were supposed to be six.  Had he looked under the bed?

Bahorel thumped Lesgle cheerfully on the shoulder and fled the scene.


	8. Chapter 8

As usual, that devil Bahorel had had the indecency to be right.  What a reflection on the world.  Grantaire _did_ feel better for spiritually ungluing himself from his corner of the Corinthe.  He had died there, it would always be _his corner of the Corinthe_ , but drifting along with Bahorel through the Quartier Latin he found himself discoursing on a dozen cafés and cabarets along the way.  A girl had rejected him here, he had fallen asleep and had his pockets picked there, that was the place to get a truly refreshing cider—why, he and Bahorel had first met over there—

And then Bahorel was right about this other ghost, too.  True, it was awkward being dropped off to play while the living went to their so-significant political meetings, nibbling The Future with their wine and dominoes, and for a few seconds he and this Joly fellow looked at one another uncomfortably—probably nicer for him than for Joly, Grantaire thought, death hadn’t made him any easier on the eyes, he was aware of it—and then Joly had started in on an anecdote about being brought to meet a distant cousin, a meeting which consisted of the young boys being left in an old nursery-room while their parents took tea.  “What did you end up doing,” Grantaire asked, and Joly laughed.  “Wouldn’t it be a nice story if we had done something terrible?  Started a dreadful fight all in our best visiting clothes and smashed bloody noses all over our lace collars?  But it was just very very dull.  He showed me his toys and we dutifully played with tin soldiers until I was able to go home.  I think we both regret not doing something wicked so we could talk about it later.”

Before long, Grantaire was helping him practice corporeality, mostly in the form of pouring brandy into the fire (a dismal sad grate, possibly the dismalest and saddest thing about the room) without burning down the whole building.  Corporeality, visibility, audibility.  Pathetic how much time and energy a ghost spent on imitating life. Joly had taken it a step further: he had brought ghostly leeches with him and stared at his ghostly tongue in his friend’s shaving-mirror while talking indistinctly about young men cut down in their prime.  It made him feel better, he said.  _Brandy makes me feel better_ , Grantaire answered, and at least Joly had cheerfully agreed on that point. 

Joly began to venture that perhaps dying as they had done had set certain subjects in their minds—drink, disease—though perhaps those subjects had already been prominent—and here he had hit on a favorite topic of Grantaire’s, one that carried them well towards midnight.  Although somewhere along the way the conversation metamorphosed into a discussion of the qualities of the spectral leech.  Joly said they made companionable pets.  So what else were these leeches good for?  Could they be taught tricks?  —Well, had he _tried?_

They were assembling small hoops for leeches to undulate through when Bahorel and Joly’s friend came back.

—

The ghost Grantaire would not go home.  Well—he wasn’t _offering_ to go home, and Bossuet hated to suggest it.  Usually _he_ was the one taking hints that it was time to leave.  It seemed unnatural to assume the opposite role.  But midnight moved on to one and then two and then three in the morning, Bossuet was still doubly haunted, and he wanted to go to bed. 

It was terrible manners to go to bed with a guest still over, unless the guest were going to bed with one.  He contemplated this, _very_ briefly.  Bossuet had reservations when it came to dead strangers he had never seen.  But was this prudishness? …On the other hand, Bossuet was already on the bed, if not _in_ bed; when a room’s furnishings consist of a dresser, a chair, and a bed, and the chair is unreliable, the bed becomes an essential sitting-surface….  Bossuet suppressed a yawn.  Where was he going with this?  Ah, yes, a quandary of etiquette, whether it was rude for a party’s host to fall asleep when he was already on a bed.  Though, again, was he the host?  Define your terms, Lègle de Meaux!  True, he had paid the rent for this room, though the money had only recently belonged to someone else.  On the other hand, Joly had been in residence first.  And Joly’s eviction from his room downstairs had surely been irregular: though by now he had stopped paying rent…how much had Joly paid for the room downstairs, which was much nicer, and how much of that payment had been left over when he died, and…um….

Bossuet woke up to an eerie whistling noise, creaking floorboards, and a rattling windowpane.  He rolled over and pulled his coat over his head (his usual remedy when he lacked a pillow).  “Joly, must you?  —Or is it Grantaire?”

"Um.  No, it’s just me. Grantaire went home at about dawn.  I’m sorry.  I was practicing."

"Mmmh."

"Could you look, though? Just for a moment, since you’re awake?  I’m making the wash basin float in the air in a very unnatural way.  It might be alarming."

Bossuet sighed and humored his friend, scrubbing his face grumpily.  “No, you aren’t.  You’re just holding it and waving it around.”

"…You aren’t supposed to be able to see me."

Bossuet scrubbed at his face again.  “You’re right, I’m not.”

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Four.  It was four.  And he was wearing a fawn-colored waistcoat.  His hair curled impeccably.  Bossuet rolled back onto his stomach and buried his face in his coat.  “We’ll talk about it when it’s a decent time to be awake.”  This should have felt like a grand discovery, an astonishing change.  Instead it felt comfortably familiar.  When he felt Joly sit on the end of the bed, though, Bossuet did open an eye and smile. 

"…Yes, yes, you vain creature.  It _is_ nice to see you.  Now let me get some more sleep.”


	9. Chapter 9

"Enjolras, have _you_ ever seen a ghost?”

It had been a long evening.  Enjolras studied Combeferre’s face, feeling heavy and slow, before answering.  “Mm.  Yes.  But Prouvaire is—” 

"Please don’t tell me to talk to Prouvaire.  I have already talked to Prouvaire.  I have been talking to Prouvaire all evening."

"Bahorel, then."

"Why do you suggest Bahorel, as though it were obvious?" 

They were interrupted before Enjolras could muster his reply: Courfeyrac, the last besides themselves in the room, leaned lightly over the back of Combeferre’s chair.  His hand was on Combeferre’s shoulder.  “What’s this?”

"Ghost stories," said Combeferre shortly, but Courfeyrac was not put off. 

"Ah!  Best shared in front of a cozy fire with a cup of something hot.  Come, we’ll let Louison shut this place up and go back to my rooms.  They’re not far."

—

"So.  Bossuet is haunted.  Bahorel sees ghosts, Prouvaire sees ghosts.  _Enjolras_ sees ghosts.”  Courfeyrac’s coffee had restored something like sharpness to Enjolras’ mind; he wished he had managed the conversation more skillfully back at the Musain.  But here they were.  He smiled ruefully.

Combeferre continued, now looking to Courfeyrac.  “You?”  Courfeyrac shook his head.  He had chosen brandy instead of coffee.  “The simplest explanation would be some difference of the physical means of perception.  Some structure of the eye.  You can imagine how droll Prouvaire found the idea.”

"You should have threatened him with experiments."

"I did."  Enjolras was pleased to see a faint smile returning to Combeferre’s face.  Courfeyrac was plainly pleased as well; he grinned and waggled his eyebrows.  "—Yes, I threatened him with experiments, and he agreed to participate, even if the entire notion was laughable.  But now I wonder what else I have been blind to."

"Well, Prouvaire says he was bitten by a vampire.  He also told me Bahorel is the devil himself, but he had been indulging in opium… And I saw the prettiest girl selling flowers the other day, she might have been an angel, and I’ve often noticed that Enjolras treats Feuilly as though he were some sort of tutelary deity that had spread his wings over the whole human race—no, I’m sorry, I won’t make jokes." 

They fell silent. Enjolras blew on his coffee.  “Combeferre…do you trust that you will grow old?”

"No one can know that." 

"Granted.  But do you say to yourself, _When I grow old_ …?”

"Don’t you?"

The three of them stared silently at Courfeyrac’s fire.

—

Combeferre had arranged to visit Bossuet the next evening.  He knocked on the door, apologized for his bulky case of equipment, glanced around the room.  Bossuet had been leaning over the dresser, writing.  Next to his pen and paper sat another sheet—this one with a pencil stub scratching across it by itself. 

"The most astonishing thing has happened," Bossuet started.  As he explained—look, there was Joly _right there_ , and there was one of his wretched leeches invading the wash-basin again, Joly you must restrain your hell-hounds, were there leech leashes?—Combeferre unpacked his experimental materials.

He did not think he knew Bossuet well enough to ask if he trusted in old age.


	10. Chapter 10

The first thing out of Combeferre’s case of philosophical tools was a lamp.    
Bossuet tugged thoughtfully on his ear, watching the man light it, and tried very hard to stifle at least half of the jokes that came to mind.  (His chest tightened with the effort.)  Light was unkind to the many imperfections of this room and of his and Joly’s housekeeping; in fact you might say the same thing metaphorically if you were a person to object to ghosts and bohemian arrangements.  _Qui male agit odit lucem_ , the wrong-doer hates the light—was that from John or Matthew or Mark or Luke?—Anyway, borrowing a joke from Camille Desmoulins would surely suit the revolutionary tastes of one M. Combeferre—and then if you wanted to get into the Greeks—

Combeferre smiled at Bossuet.  “Don’t worry, I’m not here as Diogenes.  I expect you had enough people probing your honesty at the Musain last night.”

A sudden sputtering noise came from under the bed.  “Combeferre makes it sound like they were putting it to you very hard, Lesgle.  With a lot of penetrating questions.”   Bossuet held Combeferre’s gaze, and found (with some gratification) that he could keep a straight face longer.  “Oh, sorry,” —and Joly emerged from under the bed triumphant, waving a leech— “You were talking about philosophy and secret politics.  I didn’t mean to lower the tone.”

"…I’m not sure there was a tone," said Combeferre ruefully.  "Certainly not philosophical."

"And my politics aren’t secret from Joly."  A pause.  Joly was at his elbow.  Lesgle had realized only belatedly that Joly would have rather liked an invitation to a political meeting as well. 

Combeferre wore a thoughtful expression, but he might have just been wondering where Joly _was_.

——

The experiments themselves proved surprisingly mundane.  The lantern demonstrated Joly’s inability to cast a shadow upon a white sheet, no matter how hard he said he was trying.  (And now Lesgle could see him furrow his brows with the effort.)  Displacing water within a pot went better, except that it clearly distressed Combeferre when Joly grew inattentive and went immaterial.  (“What do you mean, you forgot?” “Lesgle was talking and I—” “But it can’t require concentration simply to take up space!  No, no, I’m sorry, I believe you, but… anyway, _Bossuet_ , try to take notes without oratory, if you please.”)  The leeches were more consistent: one leech, two leeches, six, it didn’t matter, no change to the level of water.  Then Joly and Combeferre messed about with temperatures in a way that was painfully funny to watch when one could actually see the ghost poking deliberately at the thermometer.  Lesgle was hard-pressed to obey the new Bossuet-doesn’t-say-anything-while-we-work rule. 

By the time Joly was volunteering to see how quickly he could cool the water down if it were boiling—oh no, he didn’t mind—and asking why Combeferre hadn’t brought—well, the terminology meant nothing to Lesgle, but it was something electrical or magnetic—the room had a homey look.  A lamp, a pot on the stove and a small stack of firewood next to it, an extra sheet… When Combeferre began tidying away some papers and said carefully that he would just need to leave these items here until they could resume their testing, unless they minded the clutter—they were free to use them if other experiments came to mind—Lesgle began to laugh.  What was next?  _I shall have to leave this comfortable armchair for you, and these bottles of port, do you mind?_ It was lucky he had taught himself _not_ to mind, over the last two years.

A twist at the very edge of Combeferre’s lips suggested that he understood the position.  “Jean Prouvaire wants to come by soon as well.  He has theories about studying the _meta_ physical.  They may involve wine and potted violets and music.  He may also read poetry.  Shall I tell him yes?  Or would you rather not?” 

"Mm.  Joly, are we at home to Jean Prouvaire, a reader of poetry? —Yes?  Marvelous." 

—

Joly saw Combeferre to the door with a few last thoughts about their experimental plans; when he was done, he flopped down onto the bed and took off his cravat, a small wisp of spiritual fluid.  (That was the word Joly and Combeferre had been using.  They had ignored all terms proffered by Lesgle.)

Lesgle flopped down beside him, intersecting with Joly’s knee a bit.  “I hope that wasn’t tedious for you, sitting and taking notes.”

"In worshipful silence."

"I’m sorry about that, it’s just—"

"—it’s just that you started laughing."  Lesgle started easing off his shoes.  "I take no offense, I am a man of great wit and humor.  No one can resist my charm, I know it."  Joly swatted him ineffectually.  "Anyway, no, it wasn’t tedious and it certainly wasn’t as tedious as being left behind, even with company, while I went out to meet wild radical republicans last night."

"Nonsense, you have every right to go out without me."

"But I would rather go out _with_ you.  Er.  If you can.  Have you ever tried?”

"I feel I could make an attempt."  Joly twisted his cravat around in his fingers and imagined it.  What if he simply dissolved the moment he passed the building’s walls?  Lesgle was talking again: suggesting he could come along to a law lecture.  "I thought I might find out whether I’m still on the rolls.  You could stop by.  It’s murderously dull but you’re immune to that, and you could haunt Blondeau.  Bring your leeches."

"I think I will. —Do you plan to meet those people again?  Combeferre’s friends?"

"I do."  Lesgle lay quite still on the bed, arms crossed behind his head.  "It may be the only law-school worth attending."


	11. Chapter 11

_[Some weeks have passed since we last saw our heroes…]_

"Did she say you were impossibly ugly, or simply impossible?  Impossibly ugly, that’s difficult to work with, but I maintain that anyone can come to love the impossible.  Long live impossible loves!  But granted, you are dead, and this boot-stitcher might like her men possessed of a certain, I don’t know—a pulse, for instance."

"Oh, be quiet, Laigle de Meaux."

"Times truly are revolutionary.  I am being silenced in my own room, by someone who isn’t even alive."

"Why _are_ we always in your room, anyway?  It’s hideous.  The walls are cracked, the windowpanes rattle, the floor is all splinters.  If I could smell I’m sure I’d find something to complain about there, too.”

Joly felt it was time to intervene: “Do _you_ want to move, Grantaire?”  A silence followed.  Lesgle yawned and splashed a little more brandy into the fire for the ghosts before taking a gulp from the bottle himself.  Which reminded Joly of something: “Combeferre has been proposing we find another way to consume brandy.”

"No."

"Why?"

"I mentioned my concerns after that small fire last week."  Lesgle tried to cover the scorch-mark on his trousers, which was endearing.  Joly lost the train of his thought until Grantaire spoke again.

"Your Combeferre sounds tedious."

"Combeferre lives with a human skeleton, a colony of ants in a glass frame, and a case of Chinese fireworks.  Combeferre is not tedious."  Joly nodded firmly. 

"Well, Combeferre doesn’t know how boring it is to be a ghost and have to hover over spilled liquor and nearly-empty wine-bottles waiting for the residue to evaporate."

"He just doesn’t want us to burn down Lesgle’s room.  With Lesgle in it."

"Combeferre is in favor of my staying alive, you see."

"What a hideously conventional attitude."

Lesgle splashed out a little more brandy (and really, he could see Combeferre’s point) and finished the bottle himself.  “Well, friends, another death in the family: we’re out of drinks.” 

Joly caught his eye and nodded minutely.  “I propose a wake.  A wake in the bosom of the brandy-bottle’s family: to a café.”

—

Grantaire grumbled when he recognized their destination. “You are in a conspiracy with Bahorel.  I have been to the Musain before, when I was alive; I saw nothing special there; I cannot believe that the stout is any stouter in the back room than in the front, or the servants any prettier.  I don’t understand his enthusiasm for bringing me here.  One single time I dabble in the political element with him, and—”

Joly hushed him.  Venturing away from his proper haunting ground unnerved him enough without Grantaire attracting attention.  But Grantaire did not care to be quieted.  He laughed and took off in a rattling, whistling, rush down the long hallway to the back room, bowling Lesgle’s hat away in the process, a merry gust of wind.

The hat rolled under the table of several highly amused young women.  Each of them had a personal remark to make about Lesgle’s few remaining wisps of hair or his burned trousers; Joly felt a brief pang of nostalgia.  A year ago, he would have had something to say back to them—as Lesgle did, carrying on a scathing flirtation over his shoulder as they turned down the hall to the private room.  On a burst of impulse he snatched away the poor hat again and skimmed it down the hallway after Grantaire.  He might not be in his home haunt, but he had his Lesgle.

—

Lesgle loped down the hall after his hat, and found it in Enjolras’ hands.  Enjolras was dressed to leave; he smiled wryly at Lesgle as he returned his property.  “You brought company?”

"Well—I thought, since there was no meeting, and Bahorel had said the ghosts might come—  Was it an indiscretion?  After all, dead men tell no tales—"  Lesgle was suddenly conscious of his newness in this group: which was, after all, a secret and approaching-criminal organization.

But Enjolras was smiling, a contained and private smile.  “I hope that dead men do tell tales.  They may be more honest than historians.  Good night, Bossuet.  I’m sorry I don’t have a chance to talk to them further—Courfeyrac is here, his eyes are firmly on the living but I’m sure he would like to meet your ghosts.”

Lesgle found a fireside seat beside Joly, who was tentatively, politely, clearing his throat in Courfeyrac’s direction.  Courfeyrac kept looking for the source of the sound.  But before Lesgle could make introductions, someone cold leaned into the back of his neck.

"That tall blond," whispered Grantaire very audibly.  "Does he come here often?"


	12. Chapter 12

"Do you consider yourself a damned soul?"

The question startled Joly.  It was the sort of thing his brother would say. (The theological one, not one of the older two.)  It was the sort of thing Jean Prouvaire _had_ said already.  He frowned at Combeferre.

"I do not.  Do you consider this leech to be a damned soul?"  He gestured with the creature in question; the motion was invisible to Combeferre but Joly had the minute satisfaction of seeing him flush and adjust his spectacles.  They returned to their preparations. 

"We’ll need more grease for this," murmured Combeferre, and Bossuet handed over the jar with a solemn expression.  So far he had most scrupulously obeyed the experimenters’ standing orders not to make jokes.  Joly tried not to take advantage of his imposed silence too often.  He also tried not to make eye contact too often.  Eye contact was fatal.  The truth was, Combeferre had shown himself remarkably forbearing, both of high spirits (ha!) from his colleague and assistant and of an astonishing array of technical difficulties and inconclusive results.  Now, for instance, they waited while Combeferre prepared the bell jar’s seal and Joly tried to convince his leech to stay put.  (It was a new ghost.  They had sacrificed it to confirm the effects of vacuum on a living leech.  It had not yet become as tame and accommodating as the others.)

The experiment was a failure.  Neither that leech nor any of the others showed any interest in participation.  “Did it show any effects before it escaped?” Comebeferre asked hopelessly. 

"It looked bored." 

"How can you tell? —Never mind, I’m sorry.  Shall we pack up?  Air pressure seems an unpromising avenue of exploration."

"I keep telling you, I could just get into the bell jar myself.  I don’t _need_ to take up a human’s-worth of space.”

"You don’t _take up_ any space at all.  —Anyway, Joly, no.  I will not subject you to a vacuum, no matter how certain you are it won’t do any harm.”

"We’ve tried it on the leeches!  We’ve _showed_ it does no harm to the spiritual fluid; a conscious and articulate subject could report—”

"All we’ve showed is that—that the ghosts of leeches, the _alleged_ ghosts of leeches, which I have never even seen, _get bored of experiments and escape!_ " 

Poor Combeferre, Joly thought.  All the philosophical discomfort of studying ghosts, and none of the fun of whooshing about invisibly.  He patted the man’s shoulder.  They were on close enough terms now for that: on close enough terms that Combeferre smiled wanly at the sudden chill.  “At least we can demonstrate you changing temperatures.  You are neither a hoax nor a figment of my imagination—nor anyone else’s.  Aren’t you relieved?”

"Greatly.  May we continue the electrical studies next week?  I’ve had some ideas."

"Yes—I should have some time between dissections.  Listen, Joly…I phrased that badly, when I asked about damned souls.  It was in the spirit of scientific inquiry.  We’ve talked now and then about the…the mental state, and how it applies to ghosts.  If you _considered_ yourself damned, prohibited from some further state of being, might not the force of the belief…”

"But I do not consider myself damned."

"I’ve been trying, you know!"  Bossuet had come up to help Combeferre box up his equipment.  "This ghost and I have spent entire days soaked in brandy, and never once been to mass.  Let me see, if I think back on my catechism…setting aside original sin for the moment, I can recall half a dozen mortal sins committed in the last two weeks, several more venial sins…what other kinds are there?"

Combeferre seemed inclined to humor him now that the evening’s work was done.  “Some sins are said to cry out to Heaven for vengeance.”

"Ah—but so few of those hold any temptation.  No, I have never seen Joly oppress the poor or defraud the laborer of his wages."

"Thank you for the character witness."  Joly had been rolling his eyes at the conversation: his family were not Catholic and he felt he did not fully appreciate Bossuet’s elaborate jokes at the Church’s expense.  "I think.  Or are you damning me with faint praise?"

"No." The smile had left Lesgle’s face.  "No, not at all.  It’s what we were speaking of the other day.  That you are—would be—as much an _Ami de l’Abaissé_ as anyone.”

Combeferre frowned at Lesgle.  “I don’t think anyone has objected to his company at the Musain.  Or Grantaire’s, for that matter.”

"Well, no."  Joly coughed to remind Combeferre where he was.  "No, everyone is very polite.  Only—I would like to make it clear that I’m committed to more than just dominoes and gossip." 

Combeferre had been collecting his coat from the nail that served as a hanger; he stared at its collar as if puzzling out a half-familiar alphabet.  “Joly…our work there…it is wholly with the living.  Perhaps with the future as well, yes, but…you have no obligation to…”

"To anything?"  He kept his voice light.  "But, you know, I do have some hopes."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The riots and barricades in question occurred in November, 1827, when excitement following an election led to violent clashes with troops. The main fighting was right around the area of Hugo's eventual barricade setting.)

The knock on the door had them wary and bristling like cats.  Bahorel motioned Feuilly to stay put in the inner room and to pour the basinful of bloodied water out the window.  He pulled a nightcap over his head.  With luck he wouldn’t start bleeding through it.

When the visitor turned out to be simply Enjolras, Bahorel laughed and punched him hard enough on the arm to rock the other man back on his heels.  He tossed aside the nightcap and called Feuilly out into the front room.  “Yes, yes, we were in the émeute.  We thought you were the police.”

"What if I had been?"

"I would have told you I was on my way to bed and you could go fuck yourself.  Or me, if that was your inclination." 

Enjolras looked amused, or possibly just thoughtful.  “Would the police have left?”

“ _Something_ would have ended up happening.  I’m a persuasive sort of person.  —But wait here a moment, Enjolras.  Let Feuilly finish wrapping up my thick skull and then I’m with you.”   Feuilly he trusted: trusted to wrap his lacerated forehead carefully, and trusted to artfully conceal his horns.  Enjolras he trusted too, but Enjolras was a much newer acquaintance. 

When they came back out to the sitting-room, Enjolras was pacing in front of the fire.  “So—you were in the riot.”

"We were.  And a very pretty little riot it was.  A neat set of barricades—a sight to warm a man’s blood.  Shame it didn’t go further."

Enjolras was shaking his head.  “The shame is that there was no organization, no plan.  Or do you know something I don’t?”

Bahorel shrugged and looked to Feuilly, who shook his head slowly.  “I don’t.  I was at the workshop and a group of youngsters threw rocks through the windows and shouted that we should join the wallpaper-makers and the printers out in the street.  Where I found Bahorel.”

"And _we_ found Bossuet and Joly and Courfeyrac on their way to the Corinthe.”

Enjolras’ lips parted in mild surprise.  “Courfeyrac was there?”

"Courfeyrac gave one of the guards a black eye.  That was on our way out—we split up, us to here and the others toward Bossuet’s little hole in the wall.  You’ll find him there still, I expect.  Where were you?"

"Speaking with a journalist I know."  He laughed ruefully.  "Trying to get first-hand news of the election—and of the mood in Paris.  But I think you spent the night better.  You’re not badly hurt?"  Bahorel reassured him, and the three of them talked a little longer by the fire.  Enjolras’ night hadn’t been wasted, far from it.  But it was true, he _had_ missed all the fun.

—

"It’s wonderfully good of you to let us stay here," Courfeyrac said, for the third time.  He hoped he was speaking in the general direction of their hostess.  It was odd.  You could spend all your life getting along very well without knowing about ghosts—and then suddenly they were everywhere.   (When he had made this observation to Combeferre, the latter had smiled wryly.  "Yes.  A fellow medical student made the same comments to me once about noticing servants.  I hope the comparison is false, if only because it hurts my small pride in being a decent person.")

At the moment, all this ghost business proved fortunate.  He and Bossuet—and Joly—had been making their retreat from the neighborhood of the riot, as was anyone else who possibly could, with the troops on the point of taking the barricades.  Bahorel had shouted something indistinct after pulling him off a soldier, and had thrust him bodily down the Rue aux Ours, Bossuet on his heels.  The soldier had shot at them—or at someone—or possibly at nothing, but the ball had skipped first off a wall and then off Bossuet.  Or through him, or into him.  (Joly was now investigating.)

(These memories were quite confused, but Courfeyrac was making a brave attempt at forming a mental narrative.  Enjolras and Combeferre would be thrilled.) 

So he and Bossuet—and Joly—had been scuttling a little more slowly and considerably more bloodily through the alleys and somewhere along the way a voice had called out to them: _Come in here if you like. I shall unlock the door._ It was a young woman’s voice and Courfeyrac was always ready to be rescued by any fair lady.

And now Joly was investigating Bossuet’s condition, which involved bringing him discreetly into a back corner of the bookseller’s, where a lamp could be lit without bringing attention to the shut-up building.  And Courfeyrac was trying to do the sociable thing with their rescuer.  Their invisible, dead rescuer. 

It wasn’t going too badly, he thought.  Considering the circumstances.  Between the two of them they’d discovered that she had been haunting this shop since his father had been a law-student, that she preferred novels to poetry unless the poetry were Italian, that she had died of consumption in one of the apartments above the shop, and that she was really much more interested in hearing about M. Joly than about M. Courfeyrac. 

—

When Enjolras left, Feuilly propelled Bahorel towards his bedroom.  The cut forehead was one thing; the bruised-or-was-it-perhaps-a-little-bit-broken rib was another.  “ _No rest for the wicked_ need not be taken as a literal text.” he said.  “Lie down.  Close your eyes.”

"What about the good," Bahorel asked.  "Don’t you lot sleep?"

Feuilly shut the door on him firmly.


	14. Chapter 14

"So—will he live?"

Joly was startled.  He flapped worried hands at the young lady.  He was unaccustomed to an audience at his work—an audience not consisting of disapproving senior physicians and surgeons, at least.  “Please, Mademoiselle, you shouldn’t—he’s not—he’s not decent—”

"A chronic condition with me."

"I have seen bare behinds before.  Will he live?"

"Well, yes."  She had sounded rather indifferent to the answer.  Joly frowned at her.  "The bullet followed a path across the tensor fasciae latae—um."  Bossuet had once performed an impression of him, Joly, speaking in a medical-student voice.  A ghostly medical-student voice.  The look on the young lady’s face suggested that he had slipped back into that voice without meaning to.  "Um.  It’s a flesh wound."

"Then he and your other friend should leave soon.  Before the shopkeeper comes down to open the place."

"Ah—yes.  Yes, that’s—hm, there’s a certain amount of, of blood here and there, I should…clean up."  Somehow.

"Don’t worry about it.  Everyone knows this shop is haunted."

"Oh."  That was an astonishing idea.  "Everyone" knew the Corinthe was haunted too, but Grantaire had never casually left bloody handprints on the tables or let in midnight guests.  Clearly, this young lady knew a thing or two about being a ghost.  Or was she teasing him?  Joly looked at the floor and coughed.  "Well.  Yes, he should be able to walk—"

"—I even have my trousers on all the way now, if anyone cares—"

"—so I suppose we will be leaving you.  It was very kind of you to—"  A touch on his cheek interrupted him.

"I recommend you go out by the cellar door.  It opens onto an alley."

Well, that was a cool dismissal, or so Joly thought until he heard steps creaking from the floor above.  Then it was a matter of hustling Lesgle back onto his feet, rounding up Courfeyrac, following their rescuer to a trap door—

Courfeyrac, that gallant ass, refused to part from Bossuet; so they limped along together and prayed for obscurity.  Now and then the living men’s feet crunched on broken glass.

—

"Musichetta!  Mamselle Musichetta, what have you been up to?"  Musichetta did not consider this worth replying to; she took herself away into the bookshelves and watched the old shopkeeper mutter and murmur as he cleaned.  "Blood here, blood there.  Riots in the streets, broken windows.  Suppose we have another revolution?  You remember that, Mamselle, don’t you?  Pamphleteers hiding from guards, Jacobins hiding from Muscadins, everyone in and out of our cellar, Bonapartists hiding from Bourbons—I won’t have any more of that, I am much too old.  Don’t you take to letting people in here at night—or I shall sell this shop out of the family—I didn’t think you were interested in anything like that anyway—"

She was not.  But she did have an interest in fashionable medical-student ghosts who had adventures in the middle of the night with people who were not yet dead.  Even if the people who were not yet dead had a tiresome tendency to chatter.

Wait a moment.  Had she thought to give them her name? 

…Oh, _hell._

—

The Latin Quarter seemed impossibly far off, and yet they got there.  They crossed the river nearer to Courfeyrac’s lodging than Bossuet’s—or perhaps Courfeyrac steered them that way, listening to Joly’s hints about the desirability of somewhere clean and warm for Bossuet to rest, without quite so many stairs to go up.   Joly felt no guilt on this account.  Courfeyrac’s rooms _were_ clean, and became warm as soon as he built a fire, and moreover contained a quantity of washing-up things and shirts to turn into bandages.

Also, many excellent things to drink.

—

Once Bossuet was comfortable in Courfeyrac’s bed—comfortable and full of a heated wine concoction that Courfeyrac swore would cure anything—Joly curled up with him, small and cold and not very corporeal.  He was a very tired ghost.  He felt as though his substance had been passed through a vacuum or a magnetic field or—  His mind was exhausted; he couldn’t think anything through but he couldn’t stop trying to.  He listened to Lesgle’s heartbeat.  He almost felt it in his own body.  (What body?)

Courfeyrac, on his second mattress, began to snore lightly, but the small shiftings of Lesgle’s muscles—probably stiff and sore—told Joly he was still awake.  Joly nudged closer.  “Lesgle—”

"Mm."

"Did you…did you happen to notice that someone died near us?  In the fighting?"

"Well—yes.  Yes, I did notice that."

"His spirit just went away."

"Oh."  Lesgle breathed, in and out, twice.  "Well…I can’t speak for that fellow’s soul, perhaps he had other social engagements.  Some people believe in things like Heaven and Hell.  But you know _I_ wouldn’t do that.  I’d come back and haunt you.  I’d tell you about _young men_ , young men _cut down in their prime_ with _no leeches at hand_ —”

"Boo."

A yawning rustle from the other mattress.  “A ghost who is haunting another ghost?  You are absurd, both of you.  Go to sleep.”


	15. Chapter 15

Jean Prouvaire was taking the side of the Greek gods.  He couldn’t say how the conversation had begun, except that it had spun away from Grantaire long ago, or Grantaire had spun away from it.  (Grantaire haunted the Musain these days at least as much as the Corinthe.  First he had told Prouvaire that he wanted to hear Enjolras speak—but now he hummed and laughed over Enjolras’ words, spilled wine, rattled windowpanes.  He did not leave.  Enjolras never asked him to.)

"…it has not been proved to me that Pan does not come at night to breathe into the hollow trunks of the willows, stopping up the holes in turn with his fingers…"  The fellow he’d been half talking to, who had been half listening, snickered suddenly and made a joke about _flute-playing_ and _fingering_.  Jehan waved a mild hand at him.  Yes, yes, but that’s not what he was really talking about—

"Is it Pan you believe in?"  Feuilly.  Jehan had not realized he was listening; now he felt his cheeks flush warm.  Jehan knew Bahorel quite well, and knew that Feuilly also knew Bahorel quite well, but these friendships had never yet overlapped very far. 

"Why _not_ Pan?  In some seasons I find it easy to believe in other gods, even the devil himself.  But it is just turned spring, the world is approaching green, and if I saw—if I saw a man making his way through the Jardin des Plantes at dusk, whistling far off— _Auprès de ma blonde_ —and leaving a track of goat-prints in the mud-puddles, I would—I would hope for Pan.”  Feuilly was studying him steadily, unreadably but not unkindly, and Jehan realized his voice had fallen out into a brief moment of quiet in the room.  Luckily Grantaire rarely let such moments last.  He caught up a scrap of yet another conversation:

"—Leeches?  I’d be a leech, a ghostly leech!  I have a dream: the cask of Heidelberg has an apoplectic fit and I am among the dozen leeches applied to it.  I’d like a drink.  One real drink and I could forget life.  Life was a hideous invention of I-don’t-know-who.  And you’ll break your necks at it—" 

Jehan looked away from Feuilly.  “Why should I _not_ adopt some beliefs?”

-

In another corner, Joly, with effort, was playing dominoes with Bahorel.  It struck him as entirely unfair that Bahorel kept trying to distract him with conversation: it was hard enough moving the little ivory playing-pieces without answering sudden probing personal questions.

Like, “So, Jolllly, where are you in that business with mamselle…eh…you know who I mean?”  Joly had just lifted up a domino, and now it clattered back into the bone-yard.  Sigh. 

"She sulks at me with a cruel patience."

"Can’t she see you’re pining away?"

"I know.  A young man, cut down in his prime by typhoid fever, and now again by love.  Alas.  She doesn’t think it would be proper to visit my room."

"Isn’t it Bossuet’s room?"

"That is her argument."

"Well, if she won’t come out of her bookshop, just leave her there."

"That’s easy for you to say.  Ah, Bahorel, she is a superb ghost, with literary tastes—"

—

"Bouh!  Pah!  Get that charter out of the air.  It stinks of politics in here!"   For a fleeting moment Combeferre was actually worried.  The relationship between ghosts and smoke—no, ghosts and burned things—required more investigation.  Joly, for instance, had insisted on the purchase of the tobacco and papers for the new fashion of small _cigarettes,_ in the name of research _._ Could Grantaire really be affected by Courfeyrac’s gesture?  Were ghosts sensitive to some noncorporeal essence of thought, was he in fact consuming the spirit of the Charte-Touquet—?  “Wash down your charter with something more suited to my common tastes!  Some of that disgraceful vinegar they call a claret, Courfeyrac, if you’re too cheap to get something else—”

Combeferre shook his head.  Behind him, an astronomical discussion had sprung up.  He twisted his chair a few degrees and took refuge in the calculation of heavenly bodies.  All was well until a figure caught Bossuet’s attention; with his usual facility for numbers he converted it into a date.  “18 June, 1815: Waterloo.”  Courfeyrac pounced as well: “By God, eighteen is a strange and striking figure.  Bonaparte’s fatal number.  Put Louis before it and Brumaire behind…”

Before anyone realized there was much of a conversation to follow, Courfeyrac’s strange friend had seized it in the name of Bonaparte.  And this was altogether too much for Combeferre.


	16. Chapter 16

"I’m sorry about the mess."  Feuilly scratched his chin.  "There’s a system, I promise, but it’s…um.  I can clear off the chair…"

"I am sure my rooms are worse," said Prouvaire. 

"Hmm."  Feuilly held a stack of small books, an Italian journey broken down into four volumes, his fingers splayed to contain them: where would they go?  If he moved the pile of last year’s London _Times_ and the dictionary weighing them down… “I was forgetting that I still have that bundle of pamphlets stored here.  Bahorel was supposed to collect them yesterday.  Well, these can go on the end of the bed for now…  It _is_ a mess.  I’m sorry.”

"It’s impressive.  Where do you get them all?"

"At book-stalls…?"  The chair, finally cleared of books, presented itself as a decent enough perch and Prouvaire took it.  Feuilly sat on his bed. 

Oh.  No, that wasn’t quite what Prouvaire was wondering, probably.  “Or do you mean, _how do I afford them?_   I pool with friends for the newspaper subscriptions, and the books are all second-hand, third-hand.  But…Prouvaire, I make three francs a day now, with no family to support.  This isn’t poverty, it’s—”  Feuilly looked down at his hands and folded them in his lap.  They had been cupped around two familiar states, isolated desperation in one and taut self-sufficiency in the other, but it had been a long day and he couldn’t find all the words, not to set them apart from one another and then apart again from the strain he saw in the faces of men and women with children to feed and elderly parents to keep alive. 

In any case, Prouvaire was blushing an unhappy shade of red.  Feuilly had not meant to do that.  “Have you a favorite book-seller,” he asked, and Prouvaire stumbled out an answer, and the moment passed.

—

"And then he fled home just a little after that.  I didn’t get to hear more of his thoughts on Pan and the Devil, which is what we had been talking about."

"He followed you to your room to talk about Pan and the Devil?" 

"No.  He has an idea of adopting beliefs.  Mostly ancient dead ones, which I suppose could be called orphans… We were talking about it at the Musain."

"The Devil is hardly a dead belief."

"You know what I mean."  It was Sunday.  Bahorel did not attend Mass; Feuilly did not attend Mass.  Bahorel had finally come for the pamphlets, and had talked Feuilly into helping him carry the bundle home, so it was into his own well-built fire that Bahorel was smiling so smugly.  Feuilly bit his nails.  "He’s fascinated by you."

"Well, I am a fascinating creature. —What?  _What_ , Feuilly?  Are you asking me my intentions towards Jehan Prouvaire, like some sort of fussing big brother?  Are you afraid I’m trying to steal his immortal soul?”

"I’m not superstitious."

"No.  You’ve accepted the friendship of a hornèd goat-footed fiend with remarkable grace, for many years now.  In fact, I had the idea that you thought well of me."

"Yes…"

"But you are worried about Jehan."

"Prouvaire seems awfully young."

"Everyone is awfully young.  Courfeyrac is a schoolboy, Enjolras gets younger every time I look at him, even Grantaire is awfully young and he’s been dead since 1822.  —You are not exactly ancient yourself."

"I’m old enough not to go running around at night after nymphs and satyrs and fauns!"

"Oh, _well then._   By the way, Feuilly, speaking of nymphs, did I tell you how things ended up with that girl the other day—”

Feuilly resigned himself to hearing the story.  Which, fair enough, _was_ pretty funny.  It turned out the girl knew Bahorel’s mistress and had contrived to bring the three of them together for an awkward triangular picnic, lit by the moon…

He was not really surprised when Prouvaire arrived at the door.  He was carrying a folio Dante.


End file.
